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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28106304">shed your skin, newborn</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis'>lacrimalis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Vampyr (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Backstory, Character Study, Dr. Jonathan Emmet Reid Has Been Making Progeny For Three Slutty Slutty Days, Fergal Baby I'm So Sorry They Did That To You, M/M, No Civilian Kills | Not Even Once, The Inherent Eroticism of Vampiric Relationships</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:07:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,281</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28106304</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>That Fergal should be forced to serve an Englishman only adds insult to the injury of his hanging.</p><p>Nearly half a century on, he does not anticipate a turn in his fortunes with the emergence of a newborn Ekon in London.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fergal Bansha &amp; Old Bridget, Fergal Bansha/Jonathan Reid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fergal Bansha loses his father last.</p><p>Siblings he lost to disease and destitution, and his mother in childbirth when Fergal was only ten. Tadhg Bansha did his damnedest to raise his children alone, but a bricklayer's wage is scarcely enough to provide for five young children, nevermind all the maladies one finds in the pits of poverty. And as his children perished in the height of the Irish Famine and the hard years that followed, despair clung harder and heavier to their rickety family home in Galway.</p><p>By some fluke of fate or fortune, Fergal inherited none of the frailty or sickliness which misfortuned the rest of his family. He had always been hale and hearty, strengthened rather than battered down by his work carrying cargo at the docks. As his father's years advanced and his siblings passed away, Fergal piled the weight of the Bansha family's grief and need upon his own broad and capable shoulders.</p><p>Filial piety kept Fergal honest and upright, knowing full well that any hardship he brought upon the household would only shorten his father's remaining years. But with his father's passing his scruples dissolve, and he takes what he considers his due from the world.</p><p>Their English landlord comes to call in search of their missing rent – the rent which kept them in such merciless depths of poverty all Fergal's life. The landlord is the first one Fergal kills, and the tens that follow he considers no less justified.</p><p>The murders are so prolific and brutal that they make the newspapers, reporters dubbing him <em> the Butcher of Galway </em> for the sheer violence at the scene of every crime. But he is in no danger of being caught. His fellow Irishmen are his co-conspirators, his neighbors brazen sympathizers that sing the Butcher's praises with national pride and gallows humor, with all the verve of the oft-trod verses of <em> The Rocky Road to Dublin. </em>It amuses Fergal, sitting amongst his unwitting admirers in the pub, knowing he and that song both hail from Galway.</p><p>Fergal could not have anticipated the consequences of slaying his twentieth victim – for his twentieth victim happened to keep the company of vampires, and the man's death had inconvenienced and offended those wretched creatures badly enough to take an interest in his killer.</p><p>Three men come for him, and though they have the stature of soft-handed scholars they punch like steam locomotives. They beat him and bleed him, and when they're done one of them pours blood down his throat. Fergal spits it out, but swallowing some is unavoidable, and he shudders at the repellant iron taste.</p><p>His malefactors stand around expectantly, as if waiting for Fergal to do something other than cough and catch his breath.</p><p>"... He didn't turn."</p><p>"I can see that, you fool."</p><p>Fergal's resignation to his own demise makes way for dread, when he begins to suspect they mean to turn him into a monster like them.</p><p>"Perhaps someone else's blood–"</p><p>"We agreed that since <em> I'm </em> the one who lost a servant, I would get to have this one, and I'll not have his loyalty confused by <em> your </em>dubious bloodline–"</p><p>The creatures bicker like children in their posh English accents. Eventually they decide, inexplicably, to turn him loose. They cut Fergal's bonds, and one of them seizes him by the chin with its cold, slimy claws.</p><p><em> "Turn yourself into the constabulary," </em>the man compels him. Fergal's skull is a church bell, echoing with that tolling voice, beckoning his senses inward like a township to Sunday mass. Everything goes a little dark, after that, his head full of fog and splintering with the invasive will of that ungodly creature.</p><p>Fergal has to piece together what happens afterward with only glimpses of hazy memories. He did indeed turn himself in, and the high profile of his murders takes the trial all the way to Dublin. Reporters wring the blood from his hands for weeks to wet their spewing pens. He is obviously guilty, having confessed under the vampire's influence, but there is nothing an English court will embrace more happily than a grisly spectacle to distract the populace from its true enemy.</p><p>Fergal regrets not killing more of the English bastards, but he goes to the gallows without fear, and he dies without too much pain.</p><p>And then he wakes, to that damned church bell voice, cultured and cloying and nauseatingly alluring: <em> Come to me, Fergal Bansha. </em></p><p>So Fergal goes. Goes all the way back to Galway on foot from the pit in Dublin where they dropped his corpse. There's no doubt as to his direction in his mind – his Maker's voice draws him in as if on a fishing line, a barbed hook snagging painfully beneath his sternum each time he falters at all. </p><p>It's sheer delight of cruelty for cruelty's sake, is what it is. Galway is some hundred odd miles from Dublin, and if his Maker could be troubled to recall how jealously he guarded Fergal's servitude, he might think better of forcing the newborn to make the trek on foot, thirsty and wearing naught but the moldering prison rags they hanged him in.</p><p>The vampires who tortured Fergal and compelled him to turn himself in are waiting at the Galway docks in the dead of night. They laugh at Fergal's shabby appearance – evidently at his Maker's expense, because the bloodless beast does a rather convincing imitation of a creature capable of flushing with shame.</p><p>Fergal's Maker quickly bites his wrist open, and he bids Fergal kneel and drink.</p><p>Fergal kneels, and is still almost of a height with his Maker. It is amusing. They look so small now – like he could crush their skulls with one hand. He drinks – and his parched throat groans with relief. His Maker's blood is sweet ecstasy on his tongue, a taste he'd be content to chase for all his days.</p><p>But the instant his Maker gives the order, Fergal pulls away, albeit with ferocious reluctance. He is panting with enthusiasm, drooling with unslaked thirst. He loathes the wretched thing he has become.</p><p>"Do you want more?" his Maker asks with coy knowing. Of course he wants more. The man's arrogance fills Fergal with futile rage. His fists clench at his sides.</p><p>"Yes, Maker," Fergal responds obediently, teeth clenched tight over aching thirst and the curses he is forced to withhold.</p><p>"Kill them," his Maker commands, "and you can drink from them."</p><p>Fergal is glad for the command. His Maker's petty motive aside, Fergal is all too eager to comply if it means putting two more egotistic Englishmen out of their misery. Their cohort's treachery takes them by surprise, and they are not fast enough to save themselves from Fergal's retributive fists.</p><p>He drains them completely, and they twitch their last beneath his unmerciful hands.</p><p>–</p><p>Over time, it becomes apparent that Fergal's pedigree has more to do with his own constitution than the purity of his Maker's blood. Or perhaps his Maker is simply a fool unworthy of his own bloodline's strength.</p><p>The newborn Vulkod fends off several assassination attempts after his Maker brings him back to England, and he imagines he would have served the Ekon for many years, if the English bastard had wits enough about him not to go removing the advantage of Fergal’s presence.</p><p>As it is, the Ekon sends Fergal out of the room to speak with another of his kind in private. Fergal knows his Maker has died the very instant it happens, because his mind fills with an outraged litany of contradictory commands.</p><p>Finally one comes that Fergal does not have the liberty of creatively misinterpreting: <em> Damn it, Fergal, get in here! </em></p><p>Fergal enters the room. The female Ekon stands over his torn and bloodied Maker with a triumphant grin. She doesn't look much the worse for wear.</p><p>Good for her.</p><p>Fergal's Maker twitches a hand toward him, a desperate plea in his eyes as he chokes on his own blood.</p><p><em> Go to hell, you rotten bastard, </em>Fergal returns. The way his Maker's expression twists with rage is well worth the discomfort of disobeying the Ekon's strictures in the moments before his death.</p><p>When his Maker breathes his last, Fergal's will is his own for the first time in years. He would like to take a moment to relish it, but there is a skittish Ekon in the room, and that would be prudent to deal with sooner rather than later.</p><p>Fergal supposes he could take the opportunity to die as God intended. But considering the difficulties (the only reliable methods being assisted dismemberment or self-immolation), it seems like far too much pain and effort for the payoff, when a much simpler solution stands right in front of him.</p><p>Fergal nods at the Ekon. "My thanks," he says, and the tense line of her shoulders slackens slightly. "I don't suppose you're in need of a bodyguard, miss?"</p><p>The Ekon snorts and kicks the corpse at her feet. "You certainly didn't do this one any good," she points out.</p><p>Fergal grins, far from feeling insulted. It is a point of pride, in fact. "Certainly not, miss. If you send me away when you need me, I imagine I’m no good at all.”</p><p>This amuses the Ekon enough that she agrees, and Fergal accepts his new master on much better terms than the first.</p><p>She dies several years later in some territory dispute or other, and Fergal opportunistically takes a new master again. In this way he outlives his Maker and most of his masters, growing steadily more powerful with age. It is not an ideal existence, and there are many days where the relief of death tempts him and frays his resolve. But Fergal thinks he is waiting for something. He’s a piss-poor Catholic and an affront to God to boot, but he’d like to believe there’s a reason his life has extended interminably beyond his fated years.</p><p>And in the meantime he gets to kill Englishmen, and that at least is a comforting prospect.</p><p>It is only when Fergal becomes property of the Ascalon Club that he realizes he should have taken the opportunity to kill himself when he had the chance.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>- tadhg is pronounced "ty" or "tighe"<br/>- i know we all love griefing reid's boyfriend geoffrey by siccing the cops on him, but if, when speaking to detective inspector charles jerome albright, you ask him about fergal bansha INSTEAD of geoffrey, he says: "Fergal Bansha, the butcher of Galway. Hanged in Dublin in 1857 for murdering more than twenty men with his bare hands." so like LET'S GO???<br/>- i literally got into this fandom because i took one look at fergal looming over reid and thought to myself "surely there is fic" and there is not fic, but it is ok, i will take responsibility for reid's THIRD irish boyfriend v_v<br/>- in case it wasnt obvious im taking liberties with the mechanics of how vulkods are made, because 1) fergal was canonically hanged so how the fuck does that work 2) skinny lore! put this lore back in the oven, it needs time to COOK!<br/>- no reid yet but this chapter seized me in a fugue state and i had to break the fergal/jon ground, im not sorry, chapter 2 will be here soon</p><p>thank u for reiding</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>first chapter where fergal Says More Than Two Sentences!! please be merciful my dear readers, fergal only has two insufferably purple scenes that barely make any goddamn sense, i'm doing my very best to triage his character and give him A Voice!!</p><p>enjoy your daily recommended dose of Slightly Gay Feelings Of Servitude</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fergal is starved at the Ascalon Club.</p><p>Vulkod are remarkably resilient to starvation, but even with all his years of experience Ascalon quickly brings Fergal to his limit. The process is helped along with the liberal application of his master's blade, and Fergal is powerless in the thrall of his master’s blood to resist, or escape – though he struggles against the control more violently than he ever has in all his years of infernal servitude, for all the good it does him.</p><p>He loses himself to the beast, swallowed up and insensate in the dark belly of his mind.</p><p>When he emerges from that darkness in drips and drabs of mercifully offered blood, Fergal is <em> ravenously </em> servile. He is no longer a reluctant slave, but an eager one, chomping at the bit to do his master's bidding, willing to do anything to forfend this hurt and suffering.</p><p>There is no more room in him for errant thought or idleness. Only zealous obedience. Only Ascalon's law.</p><p>Fergal Bansha is not entirely gone. But it is easier to pretend that he is.</p><p>Lord Redgrave appoints him in tailored finery like a doll to dress for his amusement. The fabrics are soft and supple, but they chafe so intolerably against Fergal's skin they may as well be heavy iron shackles.</p><p>–</p><p>Fergal’s Ascalon education makes him a much more proactive servant.</p><p>Rather than constantly awaiting orders, he pursues the interests of Ascalon as a matter of course. He is even occasionally turned loose into the night, his freedom so close he can <em> taste </em>it – yet were he ever to fail to return to Lord Redgrave in the morning with his report, Fergal is sure the consequences would be much worse than that first unprompted lesson in starvation.</p><p>The other notable effect of Ascalon’s tutelage is that it makes him <em> extremely </em>fucking pretentious.</p><p>God forbid the Ekons of Ascalon suffer to hear a Vulkod open its mouth, but if they absolutely must, it had better sound like it’s reading from a book of poetry to make up for its gruff and unattractive gravel-scraping baritone. And Fergal's softly persistent Irish accent doesn't do him any favors there.</p><p>The upside to this is that Fergal’s reading requirements afford him something like leisure time, which is something he hasn’t had in, oh, thirty years or so by that point?</p><p>(He knows he was hanged in 1857, but he tries to avoid looking at calendars, since every time he sees the year it’s like a slap in the face.) </p><p>So he reads in Lord Redgrave’s library during the hours set aside for that purpose, unless he is called away to attend to another matter of greater import. </p><p>For all his near-freedom, there are still plenty of things Fergal can't do – the most infuriating of which is Lord Redgrave’s standing prohibition against feeding without his explicit command. Even if Fergal slays a dozen humans and twice as many Skals on Redgrave's orders, he must go hungry unless Redgrave says otherwise.</p><p>Too many times Fergal has been forced to watch rich, dark blood spill across his shoes like decadent, wasted wine, panting and heaving with needful desire as his teeth ache and he drools with all the profuse abundance of a hungry mutt gnawing at a bone.</p><p>Even halfway across London in the silent home of Redgrave’s late adversaries, Fergal does not have the privilege of private disobedience. Redgrave’s blood seizes every time he tries, enforcing his will without Redgrave himself ever having to lift a finger beyond that initial order he gave.</p><p>It is at times like these that the fits of rage Vulkods are known for descends upon Fergal with might and main. The edge of his vision blackens like a burning page as he lays waste to his quarry’s home, aggrieved and wounded by the scent of blood he is forbidden from having. Wooden furniture and stone walls and fixtures lacerate and abrade his hands, which serves to distract him a little, until he exhausts himself and finally leaves.</p><p>These are the dourest of Fergal’s moods, when he is mad with thirst and enervated by his own futile rage, and even the blood that bleeds from his split knuckles is forbidden for him to drink.</p><p>–</p><p>Amid the Spanish Flu that ravages the mortal populace, and the strange rise in the Skals’ numbers that makes the sneers at Ascalon Club meetings that much more prominent, a newborn Ekon begins making waves on London’s streets.</p><p>Reports indicate he has handily evaded Priwen at every turn. That he comes home to roost in the Pembroke, seemingly unmolested by the territorial Lady Ashbury. That he wanders the dreary and dismal streets of the East End, using his mesmerism to <em> make people take their medicine, </em>of all things.</p><p>And so far, the newborn has given no indication that he is only motivated to do this for the sake of his quarry's blood quality, or indeed any other purpose apart from being a good Samaritan.</p><p>No one has ever seen him feeding on a human, in fact. Instead he drinks from <em> rats, </em>like some kind of filthy, starveling gutter whelp. The Ekon would be easy to mistake for a Skal by his crude diet and cowardice, if he weren't so damned committed to playing human the rest of the time.</p><p>The sideroom of the Ascalon Club's headquarters is aglow with candlelight and the red-flushed faces of overfull Ekons, when someone mentions they suspect the newborn will be at Stonebridge Cemetery that evening.</p><p>"Fergal," Lord Redgrave calls over his shoulder, and Fergal straightens at his post behind his master. "Why don't you bring Doctor Reid Ascalon's regards?"</p><p>Fergal grins. "A fine idea, Lord Redgrave."</p><p>As he makes to leave, Lord Redgrave’s hand lifts in airy afterthought. "Oh, and you may feed before returning."</p><p>Bloodthirsty enthusiasm flashes through Fergal's limbs, hot and ready. He has to swallow and wet his lips before he can answer.</p><p>"Thank you, my lord."</p><p>Lord Redgrave does not dignify Fergal's compulsory gratitude with a response, but Fergal is too enthused by the prospect of finally slaking his thirst to give a damn.</p><p>–</p><p>As species bound in servitude to their betters, it is a matter of survival for Skals and Vulkods to be able to clock the measure of an Ekon at a glance.</p><p>Ekons themselves could be in the presence of William Marshall himself and never take notice – or they could scrape and bow for one such as Lord Redgrave, deluded into believing someone so weak is greater than all of them. Fergal can tell just by tasting Redgrave's blood that he is incapable of producing anything but Skals. It is weak and diluted, barely even a whisper of power within. Fergal's saving grace is that Lord Redgrave is unhappy to spread his blood around, like as not for fear of someone discovering its unworthy pedigree – so Fergal isn't often forced to stomach the stuff.</p><p>Fergal’s intuition is a bit stumped by Doctor Reid, however.</p><p>At a glance Reid isn't much to look at, and Fergal wonders if that speaks to the Ekon's youth, or his discretion. It is only when he looms over Reid, thinking to intimidate him, that Fergal is close enough to smell the blood beneath that pale, parched flesh.</p><p>Having conveyed his own thoughts and Ascalon’s ‘regards’, Fergal comes away from the encounter still trying to place the scent, until he finally comes to the conclusion that he must not have encountered anything like it before. It is as if Reid exists entirely outside the range of strengths Fergal has known thus far.</p><p>Which could either mean the man is unprecedentedly weak, or immeasurably strong.</p><p>Fergal has to snort in humorless derision at the very notion. The Ekon eats <em> rats, </em>for God's sake. How strong could he possibly be? </p><p>The rest of the evening is Fergal’s to feed as he wishes, but the thought of drinking from a defenseless human and reporting back to Redgrave immediately has little appeal, and so he considers how best to make the night last a bit longer.</p><p>The distant cry of Skal wretches skulking in the streets brings to mind the nuisance the Skal population has been making of itself lately. Lord Redgrave has often expressed his disdain for the vermin crawling in the sewers: an unsightly blemish on the underside of his polished shoes, he calls them. Perhaps the Skals would benefit from a reminder of their proper place, Fergal thinks.</p><p>Lord Redgrave will be pleased, and Fergal will have the benefit of a distracting challenge to entertain him. A dinner and a show, as it were.</p><p>And as luck would have it, Fergal catches sight of two clever Skals keeping to the shadows to avoid Priwen’s patrols. They are heading west, in the direction Redgrave’s sources have long indicated the Skals’ fetid nest is hidden. Ascalon does not ordinarily deign to besmirch its finery or waste its time tromping through filth after rats – but, Fergal thinks, it is a task well-suited to a lowly servant such as him.</p><p>The redheaded Skal in black unlocks a barred gate and herds its misshapen companion urgently into the darkness, casting its yellow eyes around the fog-laden docks before also vanishing into the depths.</p><p>Fergal slips in through the unlocked gate behind them, unable to repress a smile at his good fortune.</p><p>–</p><p>Fergal gives merry chase to several Skals he finds in the sewers. He almost catches them once or twice, but the cowardly little blights keep leaping into the shadows and crawling into spaces too small for Fergal to follow.</p><p>"All your skittering and scurrying will be for naught, vermin," Fergal kindly advises them, "when your filthy paws fall apart at the joints of your rotten flesh!"</p><p>This pronouncement has its intended effect: a croak of fear, not unlike the grating shriek of an actual rodent, pierces the air and leads Fergal unerringly down another passageway to its source.</p><p>"Ascalon may find you miserable wretches repulsive, but do not worry – Fergal Bansha does not discriminate." He comes to a stop at the end of the passageway, where an iron grate stands between him and his quarry. Several Skal crouch a stone's throw away, growling nervously, for they surely know the iron grate is no obstacle to a bloodthirsty Vulkod. Fergal grins and seizes the bars, and with a roaring effort he wrenches the grate from its place. One half remains stubbornly in the wall, but Fergal simply bends the whole toward the immovable side and steps around it. "I'll drain you all just the same!"</p><p>The Skals had scattered at the grate's first worrying groans, but Fergal is confident they cannot evade him for long. This may be familiar territory for them, but Fergal has seen a Skal lose an arm after colliding a little too roughly with a door frame. Though they are immortals in the most generous sense of the word, their bodies are not built to last like an Ekon's, or even a Vulkod's.</p><p>Fergal will catch them eventually – either by their pitiful stamina or their shambling, fragile bodies.</p><p>He can hardly wait.</p><p>–</p><p>Fergal catches up to his quarry in a cistern as wide and high as an amphitheater, where there are no more convenient hidey-holes for them to squirm into. He lifts one by its disgusting, oozing skull, and the other two hesitate to take the opportunity to escape. As ever, these weaker breeds are unwilling to leave one of their own behind.</p><p><em> Pointless compassion, </em>Fergal thinks with a scoff.</p><p>A splash, somewhere off to his left.</p><p>"You again!" </p><p>Fergal rolls his eyes. What in God's name is Reid doing here? "Don't you have a sickly human to be fretting over somewhere else, newborn?" he asks testily. "Or perhaps a tasty dinner of rats to be getting back to?"</p><p>"Leave them alone," Reid demands. Demands! As if he has any grounds to make demands!</p><p>A blood spear pierces Fergal’s wrist, and he roars in pain and outrage. He drops the lucky Skal to clutch at the gaping wound, and the Skal scrambles away after its wretched brethren, splashing sewage in Fergal's face as it does. Then the three of them are gone, roundly robbing Fergal of his fun and his food for the evening.</p><p>"Newborn," Fergal snarls dangerously, "haven't you heard that it's only a fool who stands between a Vulkod and his dinner?"</p><p>Fergal leaps through the shadows and lands behind Reid, whereupon he wraps his broad hand around the base of the Ekon's skull and lifts him into the air. Reid thrashes and shouts, trying in vain to retaliate against his captor in spite of his extremely disadvantageous position.</p><p>"Well, I don't mind teaching you that lesson the hard way," Fergal says graciously, and he sinks his teeth into Reid’s neck.</p><p>Reid screams, but it is nothing compared to the ringing in Fergal's ears.</p><p>If Fergal thought Ekon blood was sweet before, then now it seems as if every Ekon he's ever tasted has had muddled, impure sludge in their veins, when compared to the singing ambrosia in Reid's. It is like Fergal’s first taste of blood all over again – the unfamiliar shock to his tongue and senses, the sudden flood of energy unlike anything he's ever felt before…</p><p>It is ecstatic. Arresting. Revelatory.</p><p>Then the shackles of ownership lash over his mind like iron chains, racking his senses with a thousand agonies in punitive response to the harm he visits upon the Ekon his body now recognizes as its master.</p><p>It is usual for Fergal to acquire a new master when his former master has perished. But it has sometimes been the case that he is given blood from an Ekon more powerful than his current master, and a conflict of bloodline supremacy wages in the battlefield of his body. It is an invasive and deeply unpleasant process. But between Lord Redgrave's blood and Jonathan Reid's, there is no contest at all. It is like an oceanic tidal wave knocking over a bucket of worms left unattended at the end of a pier.</p><p>Reid's power leaves Fergal stricken. Just who in the world is this man's bloody Maker?</p><p>The pain of disobedience grows excruciating, and Fergal wraps his free arm around Reid's waist and prises his teeth from the man's neck as gently as he can. His initial hold was so brutal that it is difficult for any part of this to be <em> gentle, </em>but he makes an effort, and after a fashion Reid is stumbling away from him, claws leaving retaliatory marks on Fergal's hands and forearms.</p><p>Fergal does nothing to fend off the attack, though it does him little harm. The superficial scratches are the very least he deserves for the harm he has done his master.</p><p>Reid stares, eyes wild and uncomprehending, as Fergal drops to one knee in the filthy sewage and lifts his hands in forbearance. "Forgive me. Newborn," he says reverently, the word transformed by his penitent tongue from curse to praise, "I did not know."</p><p>Reid takes a few uneasy steps backward, pressing a hand to the side of his neck where Fergal's bite weeps. <em> "What </em>didn't you know?" he demands.</p><p>Fergal wets his lips in preparation to speak and gets another taste of Reid's blood. His eyes are tempted to fall shut at that momentary ecstasy, and he shudders at the way Reid’s influence lashes at his mind in protracted punishment. He almost welcomes it – so strange and twisted has his mind become under Ascalon's thumb – but it is pointless to compose rhapsodies to the man's power and ignore his will in the same breath, and so he rallies his senses and answers.</p><p>"Yours is a powerful bloodline, newborn. More noble than the watery veins of any member of Ascalon. More powerful, perhaps, than all of them combined." Fergal touches his chest in conservative and cultured gesture, all the affable Irish gesticulation long since stamped out of him by Ascalon's good breeding. "I am naught but a humble servant, bound to the master who offers me his blood… I’ll grant that you did not <em> offer </em> it," he clarifies, made nervous by Reid's arch look, "but a Vulkod's body cares little for such trivialities, I'm afraid. We are made to serve, and we serve the strongest blood within us."</p><p>Reid absorbs this with the dubious look of one wholly uninitiated in the peculiarities of vampiric hierarchy. His eyes are dark with distrust – and why shouldn't they be? Fergal has been no friend to Reid in their short acquaintance, and it was scarcely a minute ago that Fergal was hurling abuse at him and trying to tear out his throat.</p><p>He glances at his master's weeping wound, and he is struck with inspiration.</p><p>Fergal loosens his burgundy necktie until it slips from his starched collar, and he holds the length of silk out for Reid to take. The loss is of little consequence; nothing the Ascalon Club has given him is worth a whit, particularly not when he could be making use of it for his master. He would pull the shirt from his back and lay it across a puddle for Reid to walk on, if he were asked.</p><p>… Probably would do it even without being asked, at that.</p><p>Reid looks even more baffled at Fergal's novel generosity, and he glances between the Vulkod's face and extended hand, as if cross-referencing them for sincerity. Reid approaches slowly, a weather eye out for treachery, and Fergal remains as still as a statue. Reid is cautious enough not to place his hand in the venus flytrap of Fergal’s open hand, and instead he takes the necktie by its trailing end, rasping silk across Fergal’s palm as he warily accepts the article.</p><p>The feather-light stroke of fabric on Fergal’s callused palm feels unspeakably intimate, in the center of that cavernous, echoing cistern.</p><p>Fergal lowers his hand slowly to his knee.</p><p>Once Reid has the tie, he wastes no further time pressing it to his neck, though he is clearly already well on his way to healing. Still unfamiliar with his own body's processes. He truly is a newborn. Fergal cannot help the upward quirk of his lip, a strange fondness and admiration swelling in his chest for the Ekon who could bring London to its knees without even knowing it.</p><p>Reid’s eyes dart down to Fergal’s mouth, his brow knitting in confusion – and before Fergal can dutifully force the emotion from his face, Reid laughs, and Fergal is sure he's never heard such a wonderful sound.</p><p>He's heard his masters laugh, of course – usually cruelly or for dramatic effect, or else hastily stifled to conceal a moment of vulnerability – but Reid's laughter is bright and clear and free. It is also a bit disbelieving, which Fergal will concede is fair enough – but there is a fair bit of wonder there, too. A foolish hope takes root in Fergal's chest that Reid will be a kind master, and that maybe Fergal can taste that free laughter for himself.</p><p>"... That's it, then?" Reid asks, bemused. "You're no longer interested in harming the Skals who seem to live here?"</p><p>"Not unless that is what <em> you </em> desire, Master."</p><p>Reid grimaces. "You don't have to call me that, you know."</p><p>Fergal nods gamely. "And how would my master prefer to be called?" </p><p>Reid gives him a withering look, though it is somewhat diminished by the man's exasperation. "My name is Doctor Jonathan Reid."</p><p>"Doctor Jonathan Reid," Fergal repeats, wrapping the man's name in a bundle of deference and reverence.</p><p>Reid averts his gaze, as if lightly embarrassed. "'Doctor Reid' will do," he amends.</p><p>"Doctor Reid," says Fergal obediently, his baritone voice rumbling with content.</p><p>"Yes. Well." Reid clears his throat, pulling Fergal's tie from his neck to gingerly touch the newly-healed skin. "You never mentioned <em> your </em> name, sir."</p><p><em> Sir! </em>How quaint is his new master! How charmingly unacquainted with the social mores of vampires! He cannot help the return of the faintly amused smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "I am Fergal Bansha, Doctor Reid."</p><p>"Mister Bansha," Reid says, and Fergal interrupts him with his own surprised laugh of disbelief.</p><p>"Apologies," he entreats at Reid’s shocked expression, "but please, Doctor Reid. As I said, I am your servant. You needn't favor me with such formal address."</p><p>Reid looks troubled by this for some reason, and Fergal curses himself for his misstep. His master can call him the king of England if it pleases him, and what right does Fergal have to object? His amusement quickly fades as Reid's expression hardens.</p><p>"Nevertheless," Reid insists sternly, and Fergal only just suppresses a flinch by virtue of half a century’s experience. But then, beyond Fergal’s wildest expectations, what Reid says next is, "There's no harm in being polite."</p><p>Fergal stares at the man, nigh uncomprehending. He is tempted to take this as a test of his subservience – Ascalon members are fond of offering servants respect unbefitting of their station, just to see if they will debase themselves instead of accepting it – but there is ample evidence to suggest that Reid is disinclined to such elaborate subterfuge. Hadn't Fergal himself derided Reid's pointless compassion? Accused the man of being a lone wolf? And what would a lone wolf with too much compassion care for the protests on the tip of Fergal's tongue – that other Ekons may take exception to Reid's regard for his servants?</p><p>It <em> is </em>pertinent information, if Reid intends to have any future dealings with the Ascalon Club. Information which of course Fergal will endeavor to impart – but not now, he decides, when it would only be taken as further pointless protest.</p><p>"As you say, Doctor Reid," Fergal acquiesces, for once tentatively pleased to be caught so wrong-footed.</p><p>Reid blows out a breath, as if <em> he </em>had been the one anticipating reprisal from this conversation. Fergal supposes the intimidating figure he cuts as a Vulkod can’t be helped, but he hopes that soon his master – Doctor Reid, he corrects himself – will learn that he has nothing to fear from him.</p><p>Reid rolls Fergal's soiled tie into a tidy spiral and hands it back to him.</p><p>Fergal resists the disgraceful impulse to crush the tie against his face and shove it in his mouth.</p><p>He does, however, tie it back around his neck loosely and allow it to hang freely, rather than putting it in his pocket. The intoxicating scent of Reid's blood floats under Fergal's nose like the faint whiff of cologne.</p><p>Reid blinks at this, but mercifully makes no comment. “Right, then! Mister Bansha,” he declares, clapping his hands together once decisively. The formality keeps the crooked smile stuck firmly on Fergal’s face, which is some cause for concern (he’s usually much better at controlling his expressions) until Reid’s own polite smile twitches a little wider in answer, and Fergal’s uncertainty silences itself. “I’m beginning to suspect I have business with these Skals. Since you attacked them, they may not be eager to answer my questions…”</p><p>Fergal’s shoulders twitch against the impulse to turn inward and give himself a hangdog look.</p><p>“... But you may accompany me, if you can swear you’ll do them no harm.” Reid’s light blue eyes limn with ice. “And if this is some sort of trick…”</p><p>Fergal almost relaxes. Unlike the confusing overtures Reid has made thus far, threats and suspicion are something Fergal is perfectly comfortable dealing with. “I regret that I cannot offer you more assurance, Doctor Reid. If you knew how to recognize the mental connection made by your blood, perhaps you could test it.”</p><p>Reid looks thoughtful, eyes canted upward as if he is rifling around in the shelves of his skull. “There is <em> something,” </em>he admits.</p><p>Fergal makes an inviting gesture. “Give it a tug, if you like.”</p><p>Reid nods, and – </p><p>Fergal’s world tilts on its axis. Overwhelming pressure bears down on him, knocking him gracelessly to his elbows. It has all the strength and potency of an incontrovertible command, with none of the <em> intent </em> behind it. He is not being given an order, and peculiarly, there is no pain as a result of his failure to follow one. The sensation carries no urgency, either – though it certainly came on suddenly enough.</p><p>If pressed to describe it, Fergal would say he feels as if he is being… drawn, toward Reid. But not by force – it <em> feels </em>forceful, Fergal realizes, because Reid does not yet know his own strength. But the pressure of that presence in his mind, Fergal slowly realizes, is actually quite tolerable – even if it puts the fear of God back into him, after half a century of never knowing where <em>that</em> had gotten off to.</p><p>“Mister Bansha! Are you all right?” Reid's hands hover around Fergal’s shoulders, as if he is unsure whether he ought to touch Fergal or not.</p><p>“I am,” Fergal says, though he is a bit put out to find he is short of breath for some reason. When Fergal lifts his head, Reid is very close. “Convinced I am in your thrall, Doctor Reid?” he asks with an easy grin.</p><p>Reid huffs. “I should think so,” he murmurs, more to himself than Fergal.</p><p>Fergal stands and wipes his hands on his waistcoat, leaving damp streaks behind. “Then I would hate to delay your important business here any further. Shall we be off?”</p><p>–</p><p>The Skals, as Reid predicted, are not happy to see them.</p><p>Several latch onto Fergal in what they clearly expect to be suicide, a noble sacrifice that will buy their brethren a few extra moments to escape. Fergal does not need to meet Reid's eyes, nor even feel the Ekon's looming presence in his mind, to know that retaliating at this juncture would not be met with any charitable interpretations of self-defense.</p><p>It feels like a lifetime has passed since Fergal has had to be <em> gentle </em>with anything, but the Vulkod knows his own strength. Really, the only thing in danger here is his pride – or Reid's esteem of Fergal's worth as a servant.</p><p>Carefully he pries one Skal from his person, setting it back down on the ground, though it scratches his arms as long as he holds it, and the instant it's free it comes right back for more.</p><p>He sighs and tries another Skal, to similar effect.</p><p>Fergal frowns, brow furrowing. He is not a <em> simpleton, </em>but half a century of solving most of his problems with his fists may have left his creative problem-solving skills slightly rusty. He turns to Reid and lifts his Skal-laden arms to indicate he is at a loss, and that he would appreciate some guidance on the matter.</p><p>Reid, for his part, is making a valiant effort not to laugh at Fergal's expense. "Try sitting down, perhaps?" he suggests.</p><p>"Begging your pardon, Doctor Reid, but I'm not beastly eager to put my only pair of eyes in range of their claws."</p><p>"Hm. That <em> is </em>a dilemma," Reid agrees, and then he is too busy trying not to laugh to offer Fergal any more advice.</p><p>Fergal glares down at the shrieking Skals gnawing at his skin and clothes. "Release me," he commands.</p><p>They do not.</p><p>With great reluctance, and no small amount of doubt for his odds of success, Fergal sits as Reid suggested. The movement makes several Skal stumble and dislodge from him, and when they find themselves sitting on the filthy ground beside Ascalon's infamous attack dog, the sight is evidently disarming enough to put them off the offensive.</p><p>One yet clings tenaciously with its teeth to the meat of Fergal's shoulder. He lays a hand over its face to apply precise pressure with his thumb and forefinger to its jaw, until it lets go with a furious snarl. This time when Fergal pushes it away, its fellows dart closer to yank it safely out of Fergal's reach.</p><p>Fergal breathes deeply, bearing down against his thrumming instinct to do violence. He doubts he is in danger of acting upon it, considering the strength of Reid's influence, but it requires focus to soothe the itch under Fergal's skin nonetheless.</p><p>Then Reid places a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you for your restraint, Mister Bansha," he says, and all the vibrating violence in Fergal's veins comes to a halt. Reid's touch is grounding, a balm to Fergal's itching muscles; and his gratitude is a cool breeze, passing freely through Fergal as if he has thrown open all the windows in the attic of his mind.</p><p>“Whatever you’ve come to propose, we’re not interested,” says one of the Skals, approaching with the imperious air of an Ekon noble in a shawl of black lace. “We aren’t so foolish as to fall for Ascalon’s tricks. Now leave at once.”</p><p>“Ascalon?” Reid says, turning to Fergal. He must recall Fergal making mention of it.</p><p>If Fergal takes the time to explain now, though, it may mean Reid misses his opportunity to complete whatever business he has with the Skals. He remains seated on the ground, deferring to the efficacy of the position as one that invites de-escalation, and meets the Skal’s pale eyes. “Doctor Reid does not represent the interests of Ascalon,” Fergal says.</p><p>The Skal narrows its eyes. “Why, then, is Ascalon’s blunt instrument at his side?” Fergal bristles, but the Skal ignores him, adding with an assessing look at Reid’s attire, “He certainly looks the part.”</p><p>“Please,” says Reid, showing his palms to the Skal in an appeal to peace, “I can only imagine how this must look, but I swear I mean you no harm. I’m Doctor Jonathan Reid. I’m here because Sean Hampton sent me.”</p><p>The name means little to Fergal, but the Skal looks startled by its invocation. “Sean?” The Skal glances at Fergal uncertainly.</p><p>Reid nods and lowers his hands, his body language open. “I think he wanted me to find you. As for Mister Bansha… I only encountered him by chance.” He straightens, then, struck with some sort of realization. “Perhaps you can elucidate the matter for me. Mister Bansha drank my blood, and…”</p><p>The Skal evidently comes to a realization of its own, turning its pale eyes on the Vulkod. “Fergal Bansha. Who was your former master?”</p><p>Reid does not technically give Fergal leave to divulge this information, but the look on the man’s face is just as curious as the Skal’s, and the man hasn’t objected to Fergal speaking out of turn so far.</p><p>“Lord Redgrave.”</p><p>Fergal never knew Skals’ corpse-like faces could evince such colorful displays of emotion.</p><p>“Who is Lord Redgrave?” Reid asks.</p><p>“Lord Redgrave is–”</p><p>“He is the leader of–”</p><p>Fergal and the Skal begin speaking at the same time and stop just as quickly, looking at each other in the universal discomfort of two people who have interrupted each other, unsure whose turn it is to speak. Reid looks between them, equally unsure. It occurs to Fergal that he may not be in a position to offer an unbiased account, given how recently he was freed from Redgrave’s thrall. That in mind, he lifts a hand toward the Skal in silent invitation.</p><p>The Skal seems so bemused by this that it struggles to tear its eyes away from Fergal, though eventually it does, meeting Reid’s questioning gaze instead. “... Lord Redgrave is the leader of the Ascalon Club. Their members are the vampire elite in the Empire, and they dictate and enforce the laws of conduct and hierarchy for us immortals.”</p><p>“I see,” says Reid slowly. “Pardon my saying so, but from what I’ve seen of your… living arrangements, I’m guessing Ascalon’s hierarchy doesn’t favor Skals very highly?” His brow furrows, and he covers his mouth with a thoughtful hand. “You… <em> are </em>Skals, aren’t you? Only I’ve never seen Skals like you before.”</p><p>In truth, neither has Fergal.</p><p>“We are indeed,” the Skal says. “Those of us who have retained our sense of self know better than to run wild in the streets, where Ascalon and Priwen exterminate our kind indiscriminately.”</p><p>“I suppose that makes sense,” Reid concedes. “And Mister Bansha?” Fergal looks up, but evidently the question is for the Skal. “You believe that Lord Redgrave is no longer his master?”</p><p>The Skal nods. “Yes, I have little doubt. Judging by the stains on both your clothes, it is plain to see that Fergal bit you. Conventional wisdom suggests your blood should have enraged him,” it says, assessing Fergal curiously, “but since you are both relatively unharmed, I can only imagine that this ‘conventional wisdom’ can be traced to Ascalon’s political motivations. It benefits them to characterize us Skals as vermin, and Vulkods as beasts, after all. Why invite sympathy to those they consider lesser?”</p><p>Fergal considers this. Drinking blood <em> does </em> enrage him, but now he wonders if that has less to do with the determinant biology of his species, and more to do with the hardship of servitude. And possibly food insecurity.</p><p>“Then… if I’ve convinced you we’re no threat to you, would you be willing to speak with me further? I have questions, and I believe Sean sent me here because he thought you could answer them.”</p><p>The Skal looks between them, and seems to come to a difficult decision.</p><p>“Yes,” it says at last, “you may ask.”</p><p>–</p><p>Reid asks his questions, and the Skal – Old Bridget, it introduces itself as – answers him with what seems to be a minimum of cryptic nonsense. Not that Fergal is innocent of cryptic nonsense, himself. He supposes it comes with the territory of immortality. It is an amusing way to spend one’s time, if nothing else. And immortals are burdened with an abundance of time.</p><p>Fergal remains silent throughout, recognizing that the newness of his servitude to Reid means that he knows even less about Reid’s investigation than Old Bridget does. It is a regrettable state of affairs, but Fergal will not inconvenience Reid with incessant questions. He will ask at a more opportune time.</p><p>For now, Fergal stands outside the room which is supposedly occupied by one Harriet Jones, while Reid conducts his interview alone. While answering Reid’s questions Old Bridget had said in no uncertain terms that Harriet was barely in any state to receive visitors, and certainly in no state to receive Fergal. Fergal knows he’s not a comforting sight, and he does not object – particularly as Reid’s silence conveys well enough his apologetic agreement with this assessment.</p><p>The Skals do nothing to conceal their guarded feelings about Fergal’s presence.</p><p>They stare openly, whispering amongst themselves. They must not realize he can hear them. It’s a little sad, honestly – these aren’t the treacherous whispers one overhears at the Ascalon Club. They’re all just talking about how afraid they are that Fergal is going to kill them.</p><p>Considering Fergal’s poor showing earlier, he’s not confident he can alleviate their fears without Reid’s guidance – nor is he even sure how important it is to Reid that he do so. But an attempt on his own would likely only worsen the situation, so Fergal simply folds his arms and tolerates the gossip stoically, as he has always done. He leans against the wall by Harriet’s room and closes his eyes – for Reid has not told him to remain upright or vigilant, so Fergal permits himself a moment of leisure.</p><p>Quiet steps approach him, confident and undisguised, and Fergal knows before looking that it is Old Bridget standing before him.</p><p>Her pale eyes are mostly obscured by the lace edges of her black shawl, but what he sees of them is a piercing gaze that cuts him to the quick. Intelligent, and striking. Utterly unusual for a Skal.</p><p>“Hello, Old Bridget,” says Fergal.</p><p>She tilts her head, scrutinizing the Vulkod. “Hello, Fergal Bansha,” she returns.</p><p>He supposes she’s looking to settle her doubts that Fergal has truly broken free of Ascalon, for which he can hardly blame her. He scarcely believes it himself; part of him waits for the curtain to be drawn aside, revealing this whole experience to be some fanciful imagining in the depths of Ascalon’s latest learning opportunity.</p><p>Fergal has nothing to assuage his own concerns, much less hers. But as long as she is standing here, he might as well ask what he’s been meaning to.</p><p>“I confess myself a bit curious, Miss Bridget,” Fergal says, making an effort at courtesy on Reid’s behalf, “that your only concern for my loyalty seemed to be the question of my temperament – and not the far-fetched claim that a newborn Ekon’s blood could overpower Lord Redgrave’s.”</p><p>Old Bridget brushes her shawl aside like a lock of hair, inching it back so her face is not so obscured by their difference in height. “Lord Redgrave’s blood is not strong enough to make Ekon progeny. It is not difficult to believe that his blood was overpowered, and he lost control over you – even to a young Ekon.”</p><p>“Aye,” says Fergal, “but knowing as I do the lengths to which Ascalon will go to maintain its secrecy, I find it strange that an outsider should know a thing like that.” The matter of Redgrave’s blood is, arguably, the most sensitive of all Ascalon’s secrets, since it belies the legitimacy of the group’s very origins. “The only reason <em> I </em>know it is because I have the <em>distinguished privilege</em> of drinking the stuff, from time to time.”</p><p>Old Bridget does not offer an explanation for the provenance of her unusual knowledge.</p><p>But she does not need to.</p><p>Old Bridget had explicitly told Reid that she did not wish to share this, and Fergal lowers his voice, understanding that they are speaking of private matters. “Lord Redgrave may not be my master any longer, but I’ve lived with his blood long enough to recognize it in another. I wasn’t aware he had any…” <em> Progeny, </em>he almost says, but he hesitates.</p><p><em> Disavowed by her Maker, </em> Old Bridget had said of Skals. Disavowed, indeed. It seemed to be Lord Redgrave’s fondest wish to eradicate the Sewer Skals. Disavowal would be putting it mildly.</p><p>So the Skal probably doesn’t consider herself Redgrave’s progeny in any meaningful way, and likely wouldn’t appreciate Fergal referring to her as such.</p><p>“My existence is a threat to him,” Old Bridget acknowledges at Fergal's loss for words. “I sometimes wonder if my silence on the matter isn’t the only thing stopping the full force of Ascalon from descending upon us. Or if I put my people in danger with my continued existence, a loose end Lord Redgrave would be eager to tie off.”</p><p>Either is liable, Fergal thinks. “You know him well,” he observes.</p><p>“I did once,” Old Bridget says lightly. But Fergal knows what old wounds look like. He smothers his own with anger and vicious cruelty. It seems Old Bridget conceals hers with a veil of saintly, beatific kindness.</p><p>“I don’t intend to tell him anything I’ve learned here, if that’s your concern.”</p><p>Old Bridget smiles sadly. “You may not intend to. But you are a servant, Fergal Bansha. You may not always have the privilege of choosing.”</p><p>Fergal can hardly deny that – nor can he claim this is not a deeply rooted fear he’s been harboring since the moment Reid gave him a taste of freedom. Nevertheless, he offers the Skal a devil-may-care grin. “Who knows? Maybe that’s more of Ascalon’s ‘conventional wisdom’, aye? And we both know what that’s worth.”</p><p>Old Bridget’s smile grows a little more genuine. “That we do,” she concedes.</p>
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